And so I had a glaring revelation, I couldn’t find the poet in the man although I read his life composed by writers true disposed to tell it with veracity. They built a monument in words and deeds, a shrine of writers’ reeds inlaid with refined and proper quotes. Those motes were hardly real; I couldn’t find the poet in the man they wrote, but when I found alone the man within the Poet reading from his poetry I was replete.